


Magnetic Poetry

by Nympha_Alba



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nympha_Alba/pseuds/Nympha_Alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colin comes back to the flat in the evening to find the fridge door covered in magnetic words. Bradley makes a grand <i>ta-daa</i> gesture towards them. "Fridge poetry! We can be creative! And leave cryptic messages for each other!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnetic Poetry

It begins when they find themselves sharing a kitchen while filming in Wales. For Colin it began much earlier, but perhaps it _truly_ begins now because this may be the last time they're here. Unless the BBC decides to commission a fifth season of Merlin, this is it; it's like the final year of school before they'll have to say goodbye to their friends and make their own way in the world.

Colin always hated that part, hated saying goodbye in Belfast and Glasgow even though he felt free, relieved, when it was over. This time he's not so sure.

Today hasn't been a good day. The weather's been crap and they finished late with everyone tired. Bradley is usually good at not letting his exhaustion show, good at not taking it out on other people, but tonight he's in a really pissy mood. Colin tries to shut him out; Bradley won't let him.

"Whoever," Bradley says, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms, " _whoever_ thought it was a good idea for you and me to share a kitchen ought to be shot. We'll be sick of each other within a fortnight. We'll end up trying to kill each other with wooden swords. And that's not going to be pretty."

Colin shrugs; he just wants to be left alone. They've received last-minute script changes and he's holding his copy in one hand, skimming the lines while he puts the kettle on.

"It's _not_ going to be pretty, Colin, and our fans will be disappointed, because they want us to be pretty – our charming, pretty selves. Don't you want to be pretty for your fans, _Colin_?"

Bradley's babbling now, saying anything that comes into his head, trying to be obnoxious enough for Colin to react, because it drives him nuts when he doesn't get Colin's attention. Sometimes Colin pretends to be preoccupied just to rile him up; other times he really needs to focus, like now. All he wants is to take some herbal tea to his room and read the script in peace and quiet.

Bradley has a number of strategies for attracting Colin's attention, like shoving at his shoulder or doing a cutesy dance or leaning over to push a piece of fruit into his mouth like a mother bird – but that's when he's in a good mood. Now he very much isn't. And Bradley being pissy never fails to make Colin sarcastic, so he pointedly lowers the script and meets Bradley's eyes with a jut to his chin.

"For someone who's afraid he'll be sick of me, you're staying annoyingly close."

Their noses are three inches apart.

"I was trying to make a point," Bradley says, "and you weren't _listening_."

Normally Bradley would have laughed by now and either stepped back or literally been in Colin's face, pulling wild faces and waving his arms about. Tonight he seems to want an argument, perhaps to chase excess adrenaline out of his system. But Colin hates arguing and he's too exhausted to oblige.

"Look," he says, trying sound reasonable rather than peevish or annoyed, "it's late, we're tired and not at our best, and I just want to go and do my homework like a good lad. We can try to avoid each other when we're back here if you like. Not talk. Keep out of each other's faces. I'm off to read the script."

He doesn't even say goodnight and feels bad about it, and the strange look in Bradley's eyes that he catches as he closes his door makes him uncomfortable.

Though tired, it's a long time before he falls asleep. When things aren't right with Bradley it's like the world tilts precariously on its axis, and Colin doesn't want to think what this means. Only, he knows perfectly well what it means.

***

But Bradley isn't one to let things fester. The next morning, he says "sorry I was such an arse last night" and Colin apologises for being rude, which makes Bradley laugh and remark that Colin wouldn't know how to be rude unless he had it in a script. A warm hand lands on Colin's shoulder and squeezes a little, just for a second, and the world rights itself.

It's Saturday and Bradley heads off to London to meet some friends. Colin breathes easier. It's a lovely day – there's even some sun that he can go outside and avoid.

***

A few days later, Colin comes back to the flat in the evening to find the fridge door covered in magnetic words. Bradley makes a grand _ta-daa_ gesture towards them.

"Fridge poetry! We can be creative! And leave cryptic messages for each other!"

"Er…"

"Oh, it's brilliant. Genius. Just wait."

Bradley's fingers are already rearranging the tiny magnetic strips, and Colin puts his hands on Bradley's shoulders and moves him gently to the side so he can open the fridge and get some orange juice. Bradley is singing something under his breath that might be _Starman_.

"We're going to have the most interesting fridge door in Wales," he announces, stepping back to tilt his head and inspect his work.

"Very nice," Colin agrees.

The myriads of words have parted to leave space for some philosophical musing.

 _why understand the question_

***

The exchange begins to take on a life of its own. They don't have a lot of scenes together for the first three episodes and are filming on different sets and on different schedules, so they don't see each other often. The fridge poetry allows them to speak without talking, a silent conversation running parallel to their normal lives.

At first it's a kind of random weird statement thing:

Bradley: _identify with your lunch_  
Colin: _ask for monkey technology_  
Bradley: _into the wild wild web_  
Colin: _slather me with sanguine zeal_

There's a vaguely competitive air to it at first, because Bradley, after all, is Bradley, but that wears off as the exchange begins to find its form. They each post one line on alternate days. Sometimes they're home to hear the other come into the kitchen, read the message of the day and laugh; sometimes they miss out on the reaction and only see the reply.

There's a week or so of bizarre news headlines.

Colin: _baby eats corduroy_  
Bradley: _woman festooned with ersatz cake_  
Colin: _naked fish haunts ferocious father_  
Bradley: _prisoner surrounded by stiff caramel_

Then the headline thing morphs into a rush of image-laden gothic-romantic poetry.

Bradley: _the ocean drinks from cloudy desire_  
Colin: _wearing their wild joy blindly_  
Bradley: _flowers decay a breath away_  
Colin: _broken with dark fever_

They quite enjoy the poetry so they stay with it for a while.

Bradley: _fire embraces heart and bone_  
Colin: _her velvet smile is poison_  
Bradley: _dazzled by translucent magic_  
Colin: _die  
explore eternity_

("Fuck, Morgan, that's almost deep.")

…until Bradley gets tired of it and posts imperiously:

 _speak pie to me_

It's not until the third week or so that the fridge exchange begins to take the vague shape of actual dialogue. One morning Colin, half-blind with sleep, takes out his carton of soymilk, closes the fridge door and reads:

 _vapid platitudes!_

He snorts and replies:

 _no  
kafkaesque influence_

Bradley's next statement reads:

 _me  
deft clever cunning droll_

Colin replies:

 _monumental ennui_

He'd have liked to use capitals and a yawning emoticon to convey the right tone of teenage sarcasm and rolling eyes. His reply makes Bradley laugh; Colin can hear it from his room and grins to himself, pleased. Bradley's laugh does things to him, has done so since the beginning; it sends warmth to his stomach, lower than his stomach.

The next message reads:

 _embrace the dirt_

"Oh, nice," Colin says out loud. "I concur."

He replies in a similarly sign-waving vein:

 _imagination must live_

Next morning, the fridge door says:

 _can I dance into your space_

 _Like you haven't already_ , Colin thinks, smiling. Bradley has no concept of personal space whereas Colin's is possibly too strictly defined. For Bradley, jumping about jostling and touching people is as natural as breathing, and he does it to everyone which is why no one minds. Of course, Colin gets manhandled and shoulder-slapped and semi-hugged and arm-boxed and hair-ruffled and wrestled to the ground more often than anyone. He remembers being a bit overwhelmed and annoyed at first, unable to tell whether he was actually being bullied. But once he got to know Bradley a little he realised that if anything, it was a sign of affection, and he knew he'd miss it if Bradley stopped. The touching doesn't really mean anything; it's just part of who Bradley is, but sometimes – often – Colin finds himself wishing it did.

More often than he wants to admit, he dreams of Bradley's hands, strong and warm and never shy, taking the step from adolescent teasing into intimacy and finding Colin's skin under his shirt. That pretty mouth on his neck. Wet.

He shakes himself.

 _I suffer your shimmering metal_

It really means _you're fucking gorgeous in chainmail_. Because Bradley is, and, well, chainmail's cool in general. One of Colin's favourite scenes from all of the Merlin episodes, emotionally and visually, is the one from Series 1 when they're in Ealdor. Merlin is in chainmail and Arthur helps him fasten his vambrace; brothers in arms and until the day I die and all that. That scene focuses the relationship between Merlin and Arthur, their willingness to sacrifice themselselves for each other, literally die for one another; the deep love they haven't yet realised or understood.

Next morning, Bradley's message reads:

 _we  
drunk  
soon_

And Colin grins, because it's Friday and they'll be going to the pub in the evening.

***

Bradley's fridge statement was obviously prophetic because they _are_ pretty drunk when they return from the pub, stumbling over their own feet and each other's. Bradley's arm is heavy around Colin's shoulders and their faces are close.

In the kitchen the fluorescent light is too bright and the floor heaves like the sea. Bradley doesn't let go of Colin, but pulls him along to the fridge as he takes out two beers, clumsily manoeuvering Colin along with him until they end up with Colin's nose squashed against Bradley's temple. They both laugh, mostly because it's actually quite nice. Bradley's hair smells faintly like citrus and Colin struggles not to nuzzle, or lick at his ear.

They open the beers in a beautiful demonstration of teamwork with Colin holding the bottles and Bradley twisting off the caps. Bradley takes a swig of his beer before leaning over to poke at the magnetic words. After some fiddling and scrabbling, he pulls back to reveal a small, stark plea on the fridge door:

 _explore me_

Colin stares at the words for an absolutely endless moment, blinking at them while his heart skips a beat and then starts to pound painfully. Bradley hasn't removed his arm from Colin's shoulders – it's warm and heavy but his face is half turned away, eyes downcast, his gaze on the floor.

"You mean there's more to you than I've seen?" says Colin lightly, trying to hide the fact that he can't breathe properly. "You mean you have..." – he gasps dramatically – "... _dark secrets_?"

Bradley turns to let Colin meet his eyes – they're glassy and slow with alcohol but wide in a way Colin knows: this is insecurity, covered up as innocence or incomprehension. Colin's heart is doing strange things because it's rare to see Bradley insecure in any way, and it means something, _must_ mean something that his arm has stayed around Colin's shoulders for the past twenty-five minutes.

But if there's something Bradley wants to say, Colin would prefer to hear it when they're sober, when Bradley can't shrug it off the next day and blame it on being drunk. Perhaps that's unfair; perhaps Bradley wouldn't do that – he doesn't usually shirk responsibility, whether it's about owning up to pranks or getting a scene just right. But Colin would like to _know_ all the same. The problem is, if they leave off here, Bradley might never say it at all.

The moment drags on. "You're going to tell me you're a sorcerer, aren't you," Colin says, widening his eyes.

Bradley huffs a laugh, swaying a bit, and Colin steadies him with a hand on his back. Suddenly Bradley's face is buried in Colin's shoulder.

"A bit of magic would come in handy at times," he mumbles into the black t-shirt. His thumb comes up to stroke the side of Colin's neck.

The shock of it sinks through Colin's body, curls hot in his stomach as he draws a breath and closes his eyes. Bradley's thumb is moving slowly over a minute area of skin and Colin's entire being is focused on it, on the whisper of heat. God, Bradley's touching his _skin_ and he wants to respond; he'd start by cupping his hand around Bradley's jaw and then lifting his face and kissing him silly… But he doesn't want it to happen _like this_ , doesn't want to give Bradley the deniability of alcohol.

And then the moment's gone. Bradley straightens his back, squares his shoulders and looks very sober all of a sudden. It's an Arthur thing, Colin realises, this steeling himself to appear calm in the face of what's frightening him, what he doesn't fully understand. It makes Colin go soft inside.

"I'm going to bed," Bradley mutters, and leaves.

When the door closes after him Colin stands in the kitchen for another minute, his shoulders cold after the furnace-heat of Bradley's arm. The side of his neck still tingles from Bradley's thumb. He stares blankly at the nearly untouched bottles of beer on the counter and the phrase that looks small and lost on its isle of clean space in the sea of words on the fridge door:

 _explore me_

Then his heart begins to pound again. If he replies now, brave with beer, and leaves his reply there until tomorrow for Bradley to see when he's sober, Bradley's response will have to be real, yes? Yes, he decides, and his hands shake when he searches for words, finds them and places them under explore me:

 _want to touch_

***

He wakes up three times in the night, wondering whether to run to the kitchen and remove the potentially disastrous message. Each time he decides not to and returns to his uneasy sleep.

***

When Colin leaves for London the next morning Bradley is still asleep or at least hasn't emerged from his room. Colin will never know how he got on the train and doesn't remember much of the journey, only that he slid down in his seat and stared blindly at the blur of landscape passing by. He strolls around London, buys some clothes and a dvd box, goes home to shower and change before heading out to the pub. All the while his mind keeps playing versions of Bradley's reaction. Colin's favourite is a heavy-eyed, shirtless Bradley with tousled hair, about to open the fridge door and stopping halfway with his lips slightly parted as he reads the message and blushes. (Bradley never blushes.) His least favourite... well, he doesn't want to dwell on that.

Colin's second pint has just landed in front of him and he's laughing at one of Liam's anecdotes when his phone vibrates with a text from Bradley.

 _Really?_

And it's Colin who blushes, ducking his head as he holds the phone below table level and stares at the single word. His hands are shaking when he replies:

 _Yes._

He lifts his pint just to have something to hide behind, something to do with his hands while he waits. His heart is pounding so hard the surface of the liquid quivers in the glass.

 _I knew the fridge poetry was a bloody brilliant idea._

Colin spends the rest of the evening trying to keep a huge, moronic grin off his face, distractedly wondering whether he'll make it to the last train if he runs. But he's waited three years for this; it'll keep until tomorrow.

***

He gets an earlier train than planned the next day and sits drumming his fingers impatiently on his knee, nerves singing with tension. He takes a deep breath through his nose, closes his eyes and uses every technique he's ever learned to calm down.

Bradley is making coffee in the kitchen; his back is turned and he's singing loudly. Colin stands in the doorway watching the line of Bradley's neck where it curves into the shoulder and disappears under his t-shirt. It's such a perfect place to put his mouth, he thinks. For a moment he toys with the idea of creeping up behind Bradley to slide his arms around Bradley's waist and doing just that, kissing him where the neck joins the shoulder. Too intimate, he decides, even as his lips tingle with the imagined touch; he'll leave it for later. His stomach lurches a little at the thought of a _later_ where he's allowed to touch Bradley whenever he wants.

Just then Bradley turns around and Colin's face goes hot over the cheekbones. Bradley doesn't stop singing, only smiles around the words and puts the coffee tin aside. Two seconds later they're dancing slowly around the kitchen with Bradley's arm around Colin's waist and lips close to his ear, still singing. With his other hand he catches Colin's fingers and plays with them gently, and Colin can only laugh breathlessly and inhale the scent of Bradley's shower gel.

When he feels the cool and solid wall against his back, Bradley's face is very, very close. His gaze is direct and the tiniest bit hesitant. He's scared of this, Colin realises, and in typical Bradley fashion is doing it anyway, refusing to back away just because it's difficult. There's nothing between them except their breath and a tremor of anticipation, so Colin takes Bradley's face in his hands and runs his thumbs along the cheekbones, watching the blue eyes widen just a fraction as Bradley's lips part. A small sound catches at the back of Colin's throat and he leans in to catch Bradley's bottom lip between his own, runs the tip of his tongue over the softly chapped skin and finds it oddly endearing. Then Bradley's hands slip in under Colins jacket, lifting layers of t-shirts to touch skin, and the rush of need blots out every other thought.

"Yes," he mumbles against Bradley's lips, and then he's pushed hard against the wall with Bradley's tongue deep in his mouth and the shirts bunched up around his waist.

Gasping, he slides his fingers into Bradley's hair and parts his feet to make room for Bradley between his thighs. His eyes roll back when Bradley grinds his hips down and he wants to feel skin under his hands. They have far too much clothes on.

A knock on the door makes them both jump.

"Colin!" Katie calls. "Colin?"

Bradley groans and leans his forehead against Colin's, his thumbs still making circles over shuddering skin. "Just when it was getting interesting," he mutters and steps back.

He's a sight with his hair ruffled and his mouth red and wet, and Colin's eyes won't let him go. It's dangerous, he thinks, to feel so possessive, to be so completely addicted to something that's barely happened.

"Colin!"

"Coming, Katie."

"I wish," Bradley breathes, and Colin laughs silently as heats swirls into his belly.

"Later," he promises.

They smile into each other's eyes, unwilling to let go, but ignoring Katie is not an option. They both know how very _persistent_ she can be. When Colin pushes away from the wall to open the door, he licks a kiss to the side of Bradley's neck and notices the answering hiss of breath with satisfaction. And if he's grinning like a maniac when he opens the door, he really can't help it.

***

Sleep is overrated, Colin thinks hazily some time that night, on his back in Bradley's bed with Bradley's teeth scraping against his shoulder as they come within a second of each other.

***

He's still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he crosses the cold kitchen floor the next morning. Bradley's already left and Colin needs orange juice and coffee, badly. Reaching out to open the fridge, he stops and reads:

 _you come like magic_

He leans against the wall and laughs, closing his eyes for a moment to feel the ghost of Bradley's soft hair between his fingers, sliding under his palm.

 _ache for you_ , he replies, and he's still grinning when he puts the kettle on.

***

The arc of Bradley's tense throat is pale in the near-dark as he knots his fingers in Colin's hair and comes with a strangled cry. Colin swallows, feeling Bradley's thighs shaking, wondering how he could have lived without this for so long.

***

 _paint my latex white_

 _must have you in me_

The fridge messages these days are entirely unsuited for the public eye, and they hang the _No Service Please_ sign on their door every morning as they leave. It's risky anyway, they know – a cleaner with a phone camera could mean disaster, and yet they can't stop. This is too new and intoxicating, and it will be over too soon anyway.

After a week Bradley answers an indignant call from housekeeping. Giggling, they remove all traces of incriminating messages from the fridge door and allow housekeeping in, but the next day the _No Service Please_ sign goes back on the door.

"I only require _you_ to service me," Bradley says in his most pompous Arthur voice.

Colin obediently goes to his knees.

 _your magnificent tongue_

 _open me with your fingers_

 _kiss your delicious ears_

 _sit on me_

 

***

Their breathing is loud in the darkness as Bradley's front slides sweat-slick against Colin's back. Colin's hands are fisted into the bedsheet, his open mouth pressed into the pillow. Everything is subtly different tonight, like an instrument re-tuned, a change of key. Bradley is moving so slowly, so sweetly in him that he is gasping with the tenderness of it, torn between wonder and the need to reach back and clutch at Bradley's hip to have _more_ , harder.

Bradley nuzzles the back of Colin's neck, lips and nose moving along the spine to the damp hairline in whisper-soft kisses. A string of murmurs makes Colin open his eyes – Bradley doesn't talk much in bed, but now there are disconnected words reaching Colin's ear on a breath.

"I want… you're so... oh god, you feel..."

Colin wants to say _I love you_ then, has wanted to say it for days and now he's absolutely unable to speak. Bradley's mouth is hot against his neck, his warm hand slides down Colin's side and he changes the angle and moves faster until stars burst inside Colin's eyelids and strangled moans spill over his lips.

"Want… you... so."

Gasping desperately, Colin arches and comes just as Bradley's hand reaches around to touch his cock. His mouth is open in a silent cry.

***

The tone of their fridge messages changes after that. It's ironic, Colin thinks, that this is where they say it first, but perhaps it's not surprising. And he has to admit that Bradley was right – the magnetic poetry was a bloody brilliant idea.

 _want to hold you_

 _want you to smile_

 _adore white skin_

 _love you_

 _you have my heart_


End file.
